All Chapters of House of Sin (30 Nights of Sinful Pleasure): Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

My name is Paige. I’m twenty-two. I book three sessions a week with Ronan. He’s thirty-four. Tall. Quiet when other people are on the floor. Not quiet with his hands.Wednesday I booked the last slot on purpose. Ten o’clock. The girl at the front desk was already counting the till. The music was low. Most of the lights over the bikes were off.I wore a sports bra cut low under my tits and shorts that rode up when I squatted. I told myself it was hot in there. That was not why.Ronan watched my hips in the mirror the whole warm-up. He didn’t hide it.“Again,” he said. “Slower.”I went down. The shorts crawled. I felt air on the crease of my ass. When I stood up his eyes were still there.“Staff already left,” he said. “Lock goes on at ten-thirty. We’ve got twenty minutes.”I should have said I was done. I put the bar back and stayed on the bench.He stood between my knees to check my shoulders. His thigh brushed the inside of mine. He was already hard. I felt it through his shorts. Thi

My name is Cara. I’m twenty-three. Dr. Seth Mercer is forty-three. He stitched my hand last winter when I cut it on a glass at work. He remembered my name the next visit. He asked if I ate. Nobody else in that building asked if I ate.Friday I went back for the all-clear. The cut was fine. I knew it was fine. I still booked the last slot.The nurse waved on her way out. “He’s in his office, not the bay.”His office was smaller than the exam room. Desk. Couch. A plant he kept killing. He had his coat off. White shirt. Sleeves rolled.“You’re healed,” he said. He looked at my hand like it mattered. “You didn’t need to come.”“I know.”He smiled once. Tired. Soft. “Then why did you?”I could have lied. I didn’t.“I wanted to see you when you weren’t wearing gloves.”He went still. Then he came around the desk and stopped in front of me. He didn’t grab. He lifted my healed hand and kissed the scar. Slow. His mouth was warm.“I’ve thought about you since December,” he said against my skin.

My name is Juno. I’m twenty-four. I have been on my sister Mira’s couch for nine days. Her husband is Dane. Thirty-seven. He makes extra coffee and leaves it where I sit. He looks at my mouth when she leaves the room.Friday Mira took a night shift. She kissed my cheek at six and said don’t wait up. The flat went small the second the door shut.I showered. I put on one of her old shirts. It hit mid-thigh. I sat on the balcony. Warm air. City noise. The sliding door opened behind me.Dane had two glasses. He didn’t pretend they were for her.“She’ll be gone till morning,” he said.“I know.”His knee touched mine. He didn’t move it.“You should put more clothes on.”“You should go inside.”He kissed me. Not soft for long. His hand went under the shirt and found nothing under it. He made a sound in his throat when his fingers slid through the wet.“Juno.”“Don’t say her name.”“I wasn’t going to.”He pulled me onto his lap. Four floors down, cars moving. He sucked my tit through the shir

My name is Della. I’m twenty-three. I only went back to church because Mum asked me to drop the flowers after a funeral.Father Brennan is forty-one. Tall. Quiet voice. Black shirt. White collar. He thanked me like I had done something holy. His eyes did not stay on the lilies. They stayed on my mouth.The church was almost empty. One old woman lighting a candle at the back. Rain on the stained glass. I carried the buckets through to the sacristy because he pointed and I followed.The room smelled like wax and clean cloth. Vestments on hangers. A wooden chest. A small sink. He shut the hall door so the draft would not kill the candles. He did not lock it.“You can leave those,” he said. “I’ll finish.”I should have left. I set the buckets down and stayed.He took off the outer robe and hung it. The black shirt underneath clung when he reached up. I looked. He caught me looking and did not pretend he hadn’t.“Della.”“I should go.”“Then go.”I didn’t.He came close enough that I could

Sunday I almost stayed in bed.I woke up still feeling Friday in my body. The booth. The stairs. His collar against my skin. I showered and washed everywhere except the place I kept touching in my head. I put on a plain dress. High neck. No shape. Hair tied. I looked like a girl Mum would send to mass. I did not look like a girl who had sat on a priest’s cock two nights ago.I left the key he had not given me yet in an empty thought and walked.Third pew. Left side. I came early so nobody would watch me choose it. The wood was cold through the dress. I folded my hands. I stared at the altar like it could save me.The church filled. Perfume. Children. Mrs. Keene already had her hymn book open. Paul stacked music and did not look at the side aisle. Father Brennan came out in white. He did not look at the third pew for the first reading. He looked at the book. He looked at the people. He looked at the crucifix.He looked at me when he lifted the host.I stood in the line with my hands fo